


Lines of Communication

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Kings of Nowhere [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: It starts out of necessity, this little ritual of theirs, but over time it turns into something else.





	Lines of Communication

**Author's Note:**

> For ironicpalmtree who wanted Freewood and forehead touches from [this post](https://vagrantblvrd.tumblr.com/post/165848637956/brella-important-ship-tropes-fake-dating) on Tumblr. :D

It starts out of necessity, this little ritual of theirs, but over time it turns into something else. 

Ranges anywhere from _For fuck's sake, Gavin,_ and _Bloody listen to me, you idiot,_ to _You really need to stop doing this to me_ , and _You are being incredibly stupid right now, but I love you anyway_ , and _Be careful, come back safe_. 

(Every so often, though, there's a _Give them hell_.)

========

A Valkyrie Jack's fighting to hold steady, and the Pacific Ocean below them. 

Choppy waves and the worryingly small target they're meant to land on in this mess of a storm. Black dots on the horizon growing larger with each passing second, Merryweather closing in fast.

Ryan wraps a hand around the back of Gavin's neck and pulls him close. Their foreheads bumping painfully as he yells to be heard above the noise of the Valkyrie's blades and the storm raging around them.

“On three, Gavin!”

There's worry in his eyes, in the way he's holding on to Gavin, because they're down three crew members and this is a risky rescue mission. The two of them against an unknown number of enemies bolstered by Merryweather operatives to get Geoff and the others back.

Not the best odds, but they've had worse. 

Gavin ignores the sick swoop in his stomach when a gust of wind hits the chopper swinging it sideways, both of them stumbling a little before Jack gets it back under control.

“Do you mean three and then go, or go on three?”

Ryan growls and gives Gavin a little shake, a warning. _Stop fucking around._

Gavin grins, sharp, and thumps Ryan's chest hard enough to feel through his body armor. _Message received_ , and also, _worry about yourself a bit more, you idiot_.

Ryan holds his gaze for a moment longer and nods, satisfied Gavin's focused. Has his head in the game instead of fretting over all the ways things can go to shit. The odds of hitting the yacht alone - 

“On three!” Ryan yells, and starts the countdown.

========

The two of them caught up in a robbery of all things. 

A tiny all-night diner and a pair of punks in gang colors, loud and brash and so very young. 

A restless night after weeks of heist planning, and only more to come before things are said and done. Ryan poking his head into Gavin's lair and jingling his keys, sly smirk on his face and a promise of the “best goddamn pie to be found in all of Los Santos.” 

Gavin wearing an old hoodies several sizes too big for him and battered pair of jeans, and Ryan in an old band shirt and his dad jeans. Both of them unrecognizable as members of the Fake AH Crew, let alone Ramsey's Golden Boy or the infamous Vagabond.

“Ryan,” Gavin hisses, crowding closer to Ryan, hand coming up to snag the hem of his shirt before Ryan charges out of their hiding spot to confront the idiots robbing the place because he likes the pie here. “I don't think - “

“They're idiots,” Ryan says, so very confident. As if that guarantees an easy victory, as if things don't go wrong. “I can handle them.”

Gavin huffs, because that's not the issue. He knows Ryan's more than capable of handling this particular brand of idiot, but - 

Ryan starts to turn away and Gavin uses his hold on Ryan's shirt to pull him around, pushes forward until their foreheads bump together.

“A distraction would help, wouldn't it?” Gavin asks, lips curling slightly. Better than letting Ryan dealing with rank amateurs on his own, dangerously unpredictable due to their lack of experience. 

He can see Ryan thinking about it. The odds, probabilities, and Gavin can see it. Can see Ryan making the decision that no, it wouldn't really, but thank you for the offer anyway, Gavin.

“That wasn't a suggestion, Ryan.”

Ryan snorts, reluctant smile tugging at his lips as some of the tension bleeds out of him. “Didn't seem like it, no.”

========

Gavin and a run of bad luck.

He's lost track of time some time back. Counts bruises and cuts and the pain in his hand instead. Bright points where his fingers bed at awkward angles. That ache in his ribs and the slow drip of the pipe running along the ceiling of the room they've thrown him in.

Cold and miserable and _annoyed_.

Out of the the lot of them, it's Gavin people look at at think they've found the weak link they've been looking for. They take note of the carefully arranged disarray of his hair with frosted tips and gold-framed sunglasses. The designer clothes and golden accessories to match, and think he has a price. All they need to do is meet it, and all the secrets he knows are yours. (And if for some inexplicable reason money doesn't work, well. Surely someone as _fancy_ as that will give if they apply a little pressure.)

They're letting him stew, letting the reality of his situation sink in after giving him a taste of what they're capable of. Hinting at worse to come if he doesn't spill what he knows about the Fake AH Crew. The size and scope of their operations, names and numbers and the same thing anyone ever asks when they get their hands on one of the Fakes.

And _Gavin_.

He smiles and laughs. Jokes with them as they curse his name, his ancestry. That goddamn stubbornness that sees him through the slaps and punches and broken bones. The knife the thug with the diamond stud in his ear brings out. Cheap and flimsy, something Ryan would never be caught with given his appreciation for a good knife. The blade's dull as well. Hurts that much more when it cuts through skin and flesh, but even that isn't enough to get him to tell them what they want.

What they get instead are finely crafted lies, tailored to trap up whoever gets sent to investigate their veracity.

A warehouse the Fakes are considering using for a heist, under surveillance by B Team. A safe house the crew uses on a regular basis that may grant them access to vital information, and wired to alert the crew if someone enters the premises. A small business under the Fake AH Crew's protection, and supposedly a front for some of their operations.

And on and on until there are only a handful of these poor fools left in the building with him. 

"What did you do?" the ringleader demands, phone thrown to the floor and cracked display showing several unanswered calls, distant gunfire reaching them even through the thick steel of the door. "What the fuck did you _do_?"

Gavin lifts his head and smiles, bloody but unbroken. "You forgot how the Fakes came to power, didn't you?"

Not easily, and not prettily, and oh how people tend to forget that. 

The ringleader turns when someone (Ryan), kicks the door open, and Ryan stalks through with the others close behind. Doesn't break stride as he shoots the man down, bullet in his chest and gasping for air as Geoff takes over, starts asking questions of his own.

"Jesus Christ, Gavin," Ryan says as he stops in front of him, anger burning in his eyes doing a passable job of masking the fear in them. “You look like shit.”

Gavin laughs, tugging fruitlessly at his bonds as he looks up at Ryan. “Always such a charmer, Ryan.”

Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is this sad little croak, and then he kneels down. Carefully, gently, rests his forehead against Gavin's.

========

Ryan down with a vicious cold along with most of the crew, voice nearly gone and still protesting that he isn't sick, don't look at him like that you asshole.

“Ryan, love,” Gavin says. “Don't be an idiot. Of course you're not coming along with us.”

Through the half-open door of Ryan's room he can hear Michael violently retching, and Geoff's awkward attempts at comforting him in between his own coughing.

Jack's sleeping fitfully in his own room, and Geoff's barely on his feet. Gavin can feel the cold tugging at him, the scratch in his throat and headache building behind his eyes. The way his limbs feel unnaturally heavy, leaden.

They'll all be down for the count in a day, possibly less, but there's an important meet with a small gang looking to ally themselves with the Fake AH Crew in a matter of hours.

“I'm not sick,” Ryan growls, breaking off in the middle of it to sneeze into the wad of tissues he's holding on to like a lifeline.

Gavin hums, patting Ryan's shoulder gently. Corner of his mouth twitching when Ryan's eyes narrow, so very displeased at the way his body's betraying him like this.

“Listen to me, you - “

Gavin leans down to press his forehead against Ryan's. Bites back a laugh at the way Ryan snaps his mouth shut in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

Gavin shushes Ryan, and when he looks at him, sees the honest confusion in his eyes. The flush of fever on his face, the heat coming off of him because he _is_ sick, no matter how much he protests.

“Checking your temperature,” Gavin says, as though it's an approved medical procedure.

“What.”

A few moments more and Ryan's just staring at him, slight rasp to his breathing and still stubbornly insisting he's just fine. Like all the other times he's done so when he very clearly wasn't, but there was no other choice but to allow him that little lie.

“You're going to stay here while Ray and I go to that meet,” Gavin says, slowly, clearly, no give in his voice because this is a thing he can do right now. “And if you keep insisting you aren't sick, then you can help Geoff look after Michael and Jack, but you're _staying here_.”

Ryan starts to protest, but another coughing fit hits when he draws in breath to do so. Gavin pulls away to watch him, something heavy in his chest at how hard Ryan's fighting this. Determined to come along with Gavin and Ray and keep them safe.

“I'm not sick,” Ryan says, voice giving up on him, at the end.

His face twists when he sees the look on Gavin's face, and he grabs the front of Gavin's shirt to tug him down, burst of pain when their foreheads collide.

Concern, still, in Ryan's eyes, but trust, too. Faith, of a kind.

“We'll be back before you know it,” Gavin says, voice rough. “Keep an eye on things here for us, yeah?”

========

The crew pinned down by police during a bank heist, choppers in the air and police backup on the way.

“Oh for the love of God, could you two do that later? We've got trouble on the way!” Geoff yells, sounds of sirens drawing closer.

Gavin pulls back from Ryan, lips twisting up into smile as he watches Ryan give himself a little shake, and watches the Vagabond setting his feet for the fight about to come.

Sees the glint coming off Michael's lighter across the street through the windows as he signals them, ready to set off the C4 charges he planted earlier. Hears Ray's voice over the comms confirming he's got a clear line of sight, and Jack's voice moments later. Steady and calm and an ETA a few minutes out, right on schedule.

The heist is noisy and messy and horrifically chaotic like everything Los Santos has come to expect from the Fakes, and it's absolutely brilliant.

Ryan's smirking faintly as he pulls a gas mask down over his face before reaching for his mini-gun. Seconds later, Geoff gives Michael the order to blow the C4, a series of small explosions rocking the building as Geoff throws the doors to the bank wide open and Ryan wades into the smoke and chaos with his mini-gun spitting bullets.

Geoff's laughing and throwing out insults as the first line of police officers break. Running for cover as the Fakes let loose, and Gavin falls in behind Geoff, duffel bags over their shoulders weighed down by money, and the city theirs for the taking.


End file.
